


One does not say must to princes

by Kaesteranya



Series: And It's Business [3]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Tseng remembers a younger Rufus when fevers and not Weapons had been their greatest adversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One does not say must to princes

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is meant to take place some time after Rufus gets blown to bits near the end of the game.

“I will NOT take that medicine! It tastes icky!”

 

“Young master—”

 

 _CRASH._

 

Tseng opened the door in time to see a medicine bottle whisk just past his ear and shatter against the wall behind him. The Wutaian turned back to survey the damage for a moment and then stepped inside, a pillar of calm in a midnight blue suit amidst near-hysterical maidservants and an exasperated old butler.

 

“Young master, really, you must take it to get better!”

 

“Stay away from me!”

 

The butler backed off as a small hand lashed out briefly from the bundle of blankets and pillows cocooned on the bed, fingers poised to verily scratch eyes out. The aged man sent Tseng a pleading look as the latter approached. The Turk nodded, and with a wave of his hand all the servants left the room. Tseng quietly drew up a chair by the bed and waited a moment before speaking, tuned to the sounds of small lungs struggling to breathe over a lump of sickness and heat trapped within them.

 

“…Young master? It’s me, Tseng. They’re gone now.” When he did not receive an answer, Tseng pulled the blankets away to reveal a nine-year-old Rufus Shinra curled on his side, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from fever. When he placed his hand on his charge’s forehead, the boy shut his eyes.

 

“You can’t keep doing this, young master.”

 

“I don’t trust any of them. I only want you here.”

 

“I can’t always be here.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Your father—”

 

 _“Don’t.”_

 

Tseng fell silent. When he made as if to stand and fetch the basin and towels, Rufus’ tightened grip and frantic shake of his head stopped him.

 

“Your hand’s enough. Just… just keep it here, on my forehead.”

 

Tseng did as he was told.

 

***

 

“What are you thinking about, sir?”

 

“…Nothing. How’s the President?”

 

“Stable again. He’s sleeping now. …Sir. He… he was asking about you.”

 

Tseng didn’t answer. He nodded his farewell to Elena and left the waiting area, heading for the only room on that particular floor of the hospital.

 

The smell of blood, antiseptic and medicine lay thick in the air as Tseng entered, moving out of the glaring fluorescent lights of the hall and into the cool darkness of the President’s suite. He could see his charge bathed in the weak gold of the lamp by the bed, pale and thin and bleeding himself thinner in Tseng’s midst. He was on a respirator, and several bandages were wound about his forehead and one of his eyes. The beep of the hospital machines and his faint breathing were the only sounds Tseng heard.

 

When Tseng sat himself by the bed and placed his hand on Rufus’ forehead, his charge smiled and whispered his name in his sleep. His skin was cold. Tseng resolved not to think about it and stayed there, unmoving, the whole night.


End file.
